Slaying Dragons
by eys1214
Summary: "I love you," Eric whispered. "You've set the bar impossibly high for everyone else. And I promise to be faithful to you. Only you. From this day forward till death do us part." Little did he know that death was coming. AH/AU
1. Prologue

**_PROLOGUE_**

* * *

"Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed." -GK Chesterton

* * *

It was supposed to be best day of his life. He was, after all, marrying the woman of his dreams.

He wanted to think it was love at first sight. But it wasn't. It was lust at first grope. Now, now, before you jump into any conclusions, he wasn't a pervert.

She was.

She was drunk and horny and when she reached for his fly, he honestly felt violated.

He could still see her blood-red cheeks, her pupils dilating when she realized her gaffe. He could still hear her sharp, albeit muffled, gasp when she clapped her hand over her mouth before she broke into a run like someone who robbed a bank.

Truth be told, he never liked her that first time. Not even when he saw her the second time, or the time after that. His instinct told him, she'd be trouble. And his instinct was almost always dead on.

So he started making excuses. She was too short, he'd tell his sister. Too blonde. Too opinionated. Even her pecan pies weren't that good.

It was when she stopped stalking him that he realized what he had been missing. For one, he missed having to bow his head to talk to her - that way he could smell her lavender shampoo.

He wasn't wrong, though. She was trouble in a pretty blonde package. And he was the dimwit who fell for her.

But she was worth it. She was worth all the headaches – okay, the heartaches, too – and he would do everything over again if that meant he could wake up next to her in the next twenty years. (He liked to keep his life expectancy to low considering his line of work and the amount of lard she used in her signature dishes.)

"_I, Eric Northman, take you Sookie Stackhouse, to be my wife from this day forward until I find someone better to trade you for." The bones in his fingers crackled when she tightened her grip on his hand. She was clearly not amused. His lips curled into a sly grin before he cupped her veiled cheek with his free hand. "I love you," he whispered. "You've set the bar impossibly high for everyone else. And I promise to be faithful to you. Only you. To tell you when you've had too much pies; to be your mechanic whenever Kit acts up; to do the dishes once a week - twice if you ask nicely. To bring you Ben & Jerry's when you've had a terrible day and to never let you forget what an incredible woman you are from this day forward till death do us part."_

She was sobbing by the time he finished. Along with every woman in the room – and Lafayette, of course.

He knew he nailed his part. But it wasn't until she swept her lace veil over her face and threw her arms around his neck to press her lips hard against his that he knew for sure he had delivered one hell of a vow.

Even the pastor, who looked sheepishly away, thought so too as he hurriedly declared them husband and wife. Pastor John skipped the 'you may now kiss the bride' part. That ship had sailed.

It would have been the best day of his life. The beginning of their forever.

Someone had another idea though.

If he had known it would be the last time he'd kiss her lips he would have never let go. If he had known that someone in the crowd was going to take away his happiness in one fell swoop, he would have burned the whole chapel – hell, the entire town - to the ground. He didn't know though. No one told him that death was coming.

* * *

**A/N: I don't own Eric.**

**Yep, I did it. I wrote another story and left Chasing Shadows hanging, I am the worst. I swear I'll get back to CS right away. I just have to put this out there. Like CS, there will be flashbacks and oh, yeah, angst too. Plenty. The chapters I've written are all from Eric's POV. Sookie might give her fair share of ramblings too, I just haven't written them down yet. Let me know what you think. **

**Oh and a big shout out to MsStitcher, LostinSpace, RealJena and Amandagm. These gals are here on ff and they are awesome! **


	2. Chapter 1

His knees were bouncing as he glanced at his watch: 9:08 am. Fifty-two minutes of torture left.

_Fuck me. _

"I heard you closed another case in Denver. Why don't you tell me about it?" asked Dr. Salome Agrippa, a woman who made a career of sifting through everyone's business.

He eyed the woman sitting in a dark brown leather wingback. Her long, raven black hair set in a tight bun. Eric leaned back in an identical wingback chair across from her, willing his knees to stop moving.

How long had he been doing this song and dance? Too fucking long. But it couldn't be helped. Every six months for the past three years he had to sit down and pretend to be interested to whatever fuck she wanted to talk about. For sixty minutes he had to indulge her, convince her that he wasn't losing his ever loving mind every minute he spent sitting in this god-awful chair with her god-awful chamomile tea.

"Eric?" she poked again.

With a shrug, he ran his hand through his short dark blonde hair and answered with an impassive, "Same old, same old."

"What do you mean?"

He locked his jaw, suppressing his urge to blurt the first expletive that came to mind. What the hell did she want to know?

He let out a long breath. "We'd been called in to look into four school fires in Colorado in the past two weeks. At first the locals thought the attacks were random but when the third school burned down, the local authorities knew it was a work of a serial arsonist," he finally said, doing his part of the charade.

"And how did you apprehend the arsonist?" she engaged him, leaning forward with her hand under her chin. She was clearly patronizing him. And he was letting her. She had all the power and she knew it. He learned a long time ago that the only way he could expedite this process was to give her the illusion that he could be trained and tamed. Genial smile, firm handshake, steady eye contact - the works.

One hour. He only had to convince her he was a picture of mental health for one fucking hour and the Bureau would let him keep his credentials and leave him alone for another six months.

"It wasn't a classic case of pyromania. We initially profiled the unsub as a middle-aged man with below normal IQ and lack social skills. But this one felt different, methodical somehow. The unsub made it a point of disabling fire alarms and turning off the water supply before starting the fire, forcing us to revise our first profile. This particular unsub is a 'spite' firesetter; a middle-aged man with anger issues."

"Why anger?" she prodded. She was a psychiatrist. A government appointed shrink. Surely she knew the answer to her question and the only reason she asked was to humor him.

"We went back and studied the previous arson cases within the area and found the connection." He emphasized the word 'we'. It was vital that Dr. Agrippa took note of what a team player he was. "Last year there was a case of another school fire – faulty wiring. It wasn't as bad as the other four; the fire was isolated only to the gym. The students and teachers evacuated immediately. But there was still one casualty. A 13-year-old boy died of carbon monoxide poisoning. He was jammed inside a locker by his classmates – classic case of bullying. His mother had a nervous breakdown and was institutionalized for a year. Three weeks ago she hung herself using torn up bed sheet. We knew then that that was the trigger we were looking for. We discovered that the bullies who ganged up on the boy were expelled and transferred to different schools. I think you can figure out which schools they moved to."

Dr. Agrippa nodded as she scribbled something on her yellow legal pad. "From what I gathered, it was you who figured out the unsub's stressor. Impressive."

He shrugged, refusing to take the bait. "Everybody has a trigger."

She stopped writing and looked up to meet his stoic gaze, her eyes probing. "And what is _your_ trigger?"

His knees stopped bouncing without effort as his lips formed a taut, mutinous line. "Don't go there."

"Eric…"

"Don't." She crossed the line.

She could ask him anything. Any goddamned thing. What he had for dinner last night. Who he fucked in the last six months. What his most humiliating childhood experience was. Who his favorite Avenger was. Anything but that. Had she forgotten what happened the last time she poked that wound? Her antique bookcase he smashed his fist through probably hadn't.

"This is a safe place," she bullshitted. A torture chamber would have been cozier. "Sooner or later you'll have to let me in, Eric."

"How about never?" he snapped, stealing a glance at his watch: 9:23. _Motherfucker._ Maybe he should have spoken a little slower.

"When was the last time you visited your sister?" she asked in her gentle psychiatrist tone, the one she used when she was saying something brutally indelicate. "How about your wife? Aren't you the least bit curious where she is?"

He shot her a glare. "Is this how you make friends? Force them to come to your tea parties then ask them inappropriate questions?"

"Eric," she tried again, her tone unchanging. "I'm not trying to hurt you." _Said every serial killer I knew._

Dr. Agrippa straightened up with another audible sigh. "We still have half an hour left in our session and you know by now I won't sign your release form until we're done and I'm satisfied. So why don't we make a deal. Tell me something that wasn't total bullshit. Something true, something real, something I can work with and I will waive our next session." Eric jutted his chin, suddenly interested. "But before you say anything, let me remind you that I'm a trained professional. I can spot a liar as well as you do. Feed me crap and I will make sure you will spend the next six months sipping tea in that chair."

One look at her and he knew she wasn't bluffing.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, preparing himself for a world of pain. And with another heavy breath he said, "Then I guess we have a deal."

She smiled, like how a Black Widow grinned at her prey before eating him. "When was the last time you visited your sister?"

"Not since I moved to Virginia." _Sense the fucking tone._ He didn't want to talk about Pam. He wasn't ready to talk about her three years ago and now wasn't any better.

She nodded, seemingly pleased with his honesty. She jotted down something on her pad. Maybe something along the line of denial. She could psycho-analyze him all she wants, fuck if he cared.

She straightened her spine and studied him with her eagle eyes. He didn't have to be a profiler to read where she would go next and he braced himself for her next question.

"How about your wife? Did you make any attempts to see her? Or at least inquired where she is?"

"What would be the point? She hates me. I'm the last person she wants to see."

She arched her brow. "Hate is such a strong assumption, don't you think?"

"You have no idea of the kind of hell I put her through. She has every right to despise me."

"Okay," she resigned. Even someone as invasive as Dr. Agrippa knew when to ease the pressure. "Maybe we should take this easy."

_Gee, you think?_

"Why don't we start with something good and tell me how you met your wife."

_You've got to be kidding me._ Forget serial killers, psychiatrists are far better sadists.

"Humor me," she started when the silence became too much. "Close your eyes and pick a memory."

How could someone pick a memory? Select the idyllic ones and forget the utterly wicked? He didn't know how. No one trained him for that.

* * *

**E/S**

_**Four years and two months ago…**_

He was on his way home from work when he received a call from Pam asking him to pick her up in Bon Temps. She was in her friend's house attending a bachelorette party and, judging by the way she was slurring and eating her words, was too drunk to drive.

Still donning his uniform and his Sheriff's hat, he started tapping his knuckles on the door. It took him an hour and a half to find the small farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Who in their right mind would build a house beside a cemetery?

He could hear the music from the house. An atrocious country song, of course. It was a good thing the only residents within hearing distance from 'House of Questionable Taste' were dead.

He banged on the door again, louder this time. If his sister was drunk then her so-called friends were too. Still no response. His balled hand was about to hit the white wooden door again when it swung open.

"Finally you're here!" yelled the blonde woman at the entrance. "Arlene, get your ass back in the sofa, the stripper's here!"

_Stripper?_

He opened his mouth to protest but he was caught off guard when she grabbed the front of his button-down shirt and pulled him inside. He stumbled forward, pressing his body against her. One whiff and he knew she had been downing far too many Long Island iced teas.

"You were supposed to be here three hours ago," she chided, taking off his hat and tossing it behind her. "And where's your boom box? I was told you'd bring your own sound system. I only have Taylor Swift so unless you have a mixed tape hidden somewhere, I suggest you improvise."

His jaw dropped. Taylor Swift? Oh hell no. It was bad enough he knew who Taylor Swift was by the countless times he heard his sister play it in their house, but to dance to her hideous break-up songs?

Wait, why would he dance at all? He didn't owe anyone a lap dance; he wasn't a goddamned stripper.

"Are these Velcro?" the girl asked tugging his pants. Fuck, no. Why would he wear anything with Velcro? The blonde snapped her fingers. "Hey, hey! Are you deaf? I said start stripping. You're late and my gran will be here in less than an hour. We don't have time for your stupid skit. Take off your frickin' pants."

_Shit._ He was being harassed by a woman half his size and he couldn't do anything about it. What the hell was happening?

"Sook!"

Pam's shriek pulled him out of his debilitating trance.

"What the fuck are you doing with my brother?"

Miss Frisky froze. It was amazing how quickly her face paled as she turned around to face Pam while her hand was still clutching his waistband. Slowly she whirled to look at him, her cheeks now a vivid shade of vermillion.

"You're Eric. The sheriff," the woman croaked. It wasn't a question.

"Yes ma'am," he replied with a smirk. "Now if you can leave my pants in peace, I'm here to pick up my sister."

She immediately let go as though his pants were made of hot coal.

Then the giggling came as four more equally inebriated women materialized in the narrow hallway. The hushed snickers became unabashed guffaws as they realized what their friend had done to the Caddo sheriff.

They were all laughing except for the dominatrix, who covered her face with her hands and barrelled out of the door without looking back.

"Should I go after her?" Eric deadpanned, his eyes following the blonde.

"Nah, don't worry about her," his sister, Pam, replied. "This is her turf. She's prolly going to her brother's house to hide for a few days until someone else here makes a bigger fool of herself."

Eric turned to his sister and shook his head.

"Dagnabit!" a man's voice boomed from behind him. Eric turned to the doorway. The newcomer was wearing the same dark blue uniform. "Am I too late? Did Claudine send you to sub for me? I told her I'm running late."

Eric rolled his eyes. He had been mistaken for a gigolo twice in one night. He couldn't decide whether he'd be flattered or insulted.

One thing for sure, though, he was never coming back to that farmhouse beside the cemetery.

* * *

**A/N: I don't own Eric. **

**So I realized that most of you have concerns that Sookie might be dead. I want to allay those concerns with three letters: HEA. I'm a sucker for HEA. While this is a darker piece than DMH, rest assured E/S will get their HEA. Eventually. **

**Thank you for those who subscribed to this fic and a bigger THANK YOU to those who put this on their fave list and left thoughtful reviews. I am in awe at the vote of confidence.**

**Love, love, love to y'all. And of course to the fabulous amandagm. **


	3. Chapter 3

_**Four years and two months ago… (minus two days)**_

Eric threw his half-eaten sandwich in the bin.

His bank account had lost a beloved fifth digit after Pam guilted him into sponsoring her two-week trip to Portugal. And this was his consolation price: a sandwich that tasted like sandpaper. That was what he had been eating for the past four days, thanks to his sister's ridiculous Mediterranean diet.

No mayo, no bacon, not even an egg. She said he already reached his quota of four a week. Just lettuce, tomato, a questionable piece of meat and, oh, let's not forget the ground unsalted roasted almonds she so generously sprinkled for that extra crunch.

_Kill me, quick. _

He knew she meant well. She was, after all, only looking out for him. Their parents' health history was a cautionary tale in all of Shreveport. Their mother, a lovely, curvy stay-at-home mom, bit the dust when he was still in high school. Diabetes. At least, no one could say she wasn't sweet. Their father, who served as Caddo's sheriff for ten long years, held on to his post and saw at least one of his children finish college until he dropped dead in his favorite booth in the local diner. Cause of death: Pulmonary embolism.

Funny, how the mighty Godric Northman, the self-proclaimed fastest gun in the South – that or the luckiest bastard on earth – had taken two bullets to the hips; one to the chest - barely missing his heart - and survived a knife fight in New Orleans in the middle of Mardi Gras gone homicidally wild, was murdered by his filthy habit of smoking two packs a day.

He had had it with Pam's healthy living bull. It was bad enough that he had to drink that gag-inducing soy milk – it was either that or a suspicious-looking green concoction – for breakfast, this madness had to stop now. He was going to Fantasia's, the diner down the street, and get himself a real, manly meal; he might even ask Ginger, the eye-twitchingly giddy blonde, for extra bacon grease for kicks.

He grabbed his jacket off the rack by the door and stepped out of his office.

"Hey Clancy, I'm goin' to Fantasia, you coming?" he asked his deputy, a somewhat short man in his early forties with black spiky hair, bulbous nose and beady eyes. What Clancy lacked in height, he made up with brute. He had a don't-mess-with-me quality which made him suitable to be Eric's second.

Clancy cleared his throat. "Uhm, chief, someone's lookin' for ya," he grumbled, nudging his head to the side.

Eric diverted his eyes to the benches near the station's entrance. And there she was, Miss Frisky herself, in a white sundress and red cardigan.

She quickly rose from her seat, picking up a round platter covered with aluminium foil from the next bench.

"Hiya Sheriff." She waved timidly.

_Aw, look who found her manners. _

"Miss Frisky." He nodded. She dropped her eyes to the floor, blood flooding her cheeks.

"Look," she sighed, "about the other night…" her voice trailed off. The Southern thing to do was to absolve her of her faux pas. Tell her 'no, worries' and that he had forgotten all about it. But he was starving and, truth be told, he kinda liked watching her sweat a bit.

So he kept staring at her expectantly, making her flush a shade darker.

What? He had been groped and harassed. She didn't even have the courtesy to buy him dinner first.

She swallowed thickly. "Can we go to your office?" she whispered, leaning closer while avoiding Clancy's scrutinizing eyes.

He shook his head no and stooped down until the tip of his nose was almost grazing the top of her head. "I think it's best if we're in plain sight. Just in case you get handsy again," his voice even lower than hers, just to be certain Clancy wouldn't hear him. He might like to mess with her a little more but he didn't want to humiliate her like that. He might be an ass but he wasn't evil.

Although he must have overestimated her contrition because as soon as he uttered the word 'handsy' her head instantly jerked upward, knocking his chin in the process. His teeth bit his lower lip hard, making it bleed.

"Oh lordy!" she shrieked as she grabbed his chin to check the cut. "I am so so sorry."

Clancy circled out of his desk to clear the crime scene. "You okay, chief?"

Eric nodded. A girl made him bleed in front of his squad. The least he wanted was to make a bigger scene. Pulling his head off her clutches, he spun on his heel and stormed into his office. To his utter dismay, the girl was right behind him.

"I'm really sorry," she started prattling again, closing the door behind her. "Does it hurt?"

_My lip, no. My ego, fuck yes._

"What're you still doing here? Haven't you caused enough trouble for one day?"

She recoiled, her rueful expression turning into steely annoyance. "I came here to apologize," she spat, suddenly defensive.

"Oh and this is your apology? Giving me a bloody lip? You do know how apology works, right?" He wasn't pulling any punches anymore.

"That was an accident," she countered, jutting her chin up.

He shook his head while dabbing his mouth with his white handkerchief. "Just get out of my office."

She pursed her lips, visibly aggravated. She turned to the door and twisted the knob. But before she could peel the door open, she whisked around and dashed to his table. With a thud, she dropped the round tray in front of him. "I baked that myself; don't worry it's not laced with arsenic."

At least she had the decency not to slam the door when she left. Eric eyed her gift for a moment before he gently peeled the aluminium foil. The smell alone made his mouth water. Hello, processed sugar.

Pam would have a heart attack.

* * *

**E/S**

_**Present day…**_

"So you didn't like her at first," Dr. Agrippa stated the obvious.

"That's putting it mildly."

The sadistic psychiatrist smiled, a toothy grin this time, visibly pleased with his candor. "And when did you see her again?"

"About 30 minutes after she left my office."

* * *

**E/S**

The pie, however drool-worthy, didn't alter his opinion of her. Her abrasive behavior was infuriating. He swore if he never saw that woman again it would be too soon.

Too soon came way too fast.

As he was approaching his government issued Dodge Avenger, he noticed there was a ratty yellow Honda blocking his way.

_Sonofabitch._

It was a clear violation to park in front of a patrol vehicle– more so in front of a sheriff's car. The dumbass who did it must be a complete moron or an inconsiderate prick.

He marched beside the yellow Honda, seething. As soon as he bent his head to the driver's window, he realized she was neither a moron or a prick. Just a pain in his ass.

He tapped on the window.

Miss Frisky, who had her head pressed against the steering wheel, jumped up at the sound. She turned to the window and the scowl that she gave him was reminiscent of the one they shared half an hour ago in his office.

She grudgingly rolled her window and arched a brow. "Yeah?"

"You're blocking my way." If she were any other offender, he would have asked her to step out of the car and ushered her right back into the station. But by god, he was famished and, honestly, he had seen enough of her to last him a couple of lifetimes.

She huffed - or was it a sigh? Either way, it didn't sound good to him.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I inconveniencing you?" he mocked. His patience was as thin as his stomach lining.

"My car won't start," she admitted, her expression softening.

"That's not my problem. This is an obstruction. I could have you arrested for parking in front of a patrol car."

Her neck moved, swallowing hard. She was obviously nervous.

"I called my brother, he's gonna pick me up and have it towed as soon as he gets off work in a couple of hours."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep, necessary breath. "I have a better idea. Why don't I have this towed and you can take a cab home so I can finally leave and forget this day ever happened."

"You want me take a taxi to Bon Temps? I'm sorry, Sheriff, I'm just a waitress, not the Queen of freakin' England." Grabbing her cell phone from the dashboard, she started punching numbers. "I'll just call Pam; bet she can give me a ride home."

Pam? Oh hell no. His sister's minivan was still in the shop, which meant the only vehicle at her disposal would be his precious red corvette. It was his one and only vice. The lone piece of luxury he owned. If Batman could have his bat mobile, why couldn't he?

"Wait!" he yelled, halting her instantly. He looked around desperately until he found Clancy's white Impala cruiser near the station's entrance. "Wait here. And. Don't. Call. Pam."

She shrugged. It wasn't as if she could go anywhere.

He jogged back to the station and asked Clancy the keys for his squad car. He swapped Clancy's car keys for his own without so much as an explanation. Clancy, who was on-duty for the night, never got to ask why, before Eric dashed out of the station.

Luckily, she was already out of her useless car by the time he got back. "Come on," he beckoned as he was folding himself into Clancy's black-and-white Impala. She walked to the passenger side but never entered. He rolled the window down to her side and gave her an impatient look. "I'll drive you to Bon Temps. You can call your brother and tell him to have your car towed as soon as possible. I'm assuming, of course, that he has your spare key."

She didn't move an inch as she kept eyeing him dubiously. "You're gonna gimme a ride?"

He could feel his eyes rolling in annoyance as nodded.

"Why?"

_Oh my fucking balls._ Did he really have to explain everything?

"You want to go home. _I_ want to go home. So please, do us both a favor and just get in."

She didn't budge and instead, folded her arms across her chest.

"This might sound ridiculous to you, but I'm not a serial killer. And if I want you dead, there are better - simpler - ways to do it."

She bit her lip, seemingly weighing the pros and cons and in her head. A few exasperating seconds later, he heard the unmistakable clank of the car door as she pulled the handle and hopped inside the squad truck.

"Seatbelt," he mumbled while he strapped his own before he fired the ignition. "Oh and just so we're clear. This isn't an invitation to grope me. I'm on official Sheriff business. Let's try to keep it clean."

Her mouth opened, flabbergasted. But before she could hurl the first round of snarky comebacks his way, he flashed her a lopsided grin. That seemed to pacify her for the time being.

Their trip had been blissfully quiet. She kept gazing out the window while he fought the urge to strike a conversation. They were halfway to Bon Temps when he realized he had forgotten his pie in his office. _Fuckity fuck_. He swore if Clancy even tried to take a sliver, he'd gut him alive. Man, he really was outrageously hungry.

He had just taken a right turn by the Parish church where the paved road ended when she finally spoke. "You can let me out here. I can walk."

If his recollection was right, they were still at least a couple of miles away from the farmhouse. The thick foliage along the gritty road told him his internal GPS was working perfectly. "What kind of a sheriff do you think I am if I don't keep my word and drive you home?"

"The worst kind," she grumbled lowly.

"Beg pardon?" He turned to her.

"I said, 'if you insist, Sheriff.'" She batted her eyelashes with exaggeration.

"Why do you live beside a cemetery, by the way?"

She returned her gaze outside the window. "It's prime real estate. For one, we never had problems with our neighbors."

He couldn't help but chuckle.

As luck would have it, it started raining. The first rain of spring. _Of fucking course._

"Dog burn it," she muttered under her breath. Apparently, she wasn't amused with Mother Nature, too. It was the first thing they had in common.

He could see the farmhouse now as the tires groaned against the gravel driveway.

"Stay there," he told her yet again as he pulled on the hand brake. "There might be an umbrella in the trunk."

He popped the trunk and got off the truck. She didn't wait, of course. Proving her stubbornness wasn't a one-time thing, she hopped off the vehicle and made a beeline to the porch. He should have just let her go. Who cares if she'd get drenched? A little pneumonia might teach her a lesson or two. The good cop inside him wouldn't let him be an ass, though. Scrambling for the umbrella, he ran after her. She was soaking wet by the time he reached her and not in the good, perverse kind. But he didn't care. He fell into step with her while holding the umbrella over their heads.

He was so busy trying to cover her that he didn't notice the old woman holding the screen door open until they stepped onto the porch.

"Heavens, Sookie!" called the old woman with silver-gray hair and pale blue eyes. "What did you do this time?"

Eric's brow shot up. _This time? Interesting._

"Nothin'," Miss Frisky screeched, seemingly mortified. "Kit wouldn't start. He's just givin' me a ride."

_Kit?_ He didn't want to ask.

The old woman's expression remained wary as she turned to him. "Is it true, officer?"

For a fleeting moment, he was tempted to shake his head 'no' just to mess with Miss Frisky a little more. But he was too damned tired and wet to even play coy so with a nod he replied, "Yes, ma'am."

The concerned matriarch's shoulders noticeably relaxed and gave him a smile. "I told you that car is more trouble than it's worth," she chided, wagging her finger at Miss Frisky.

He could say the same for the car's owner.

Running his hand through his wet, mussed up hair he faced the lady of the house. "Well, I better get going. Have a nice evenin', ma'am."

"Alrighty then, have a safe trip, Sheriff." Miss Frisky, the ungrateful bitch, was already reaching for the screen door when the old woman clicked her tongue.

"Sookie Stackhouse! Where are your manners?" the gray-haired lady scolded, her tone unquestionably high. "This fine young officer just gave you a ride, the least you can do is offer him refreshments or a towel to dry off."

Miss Frisky stiffened. If he weren't watching her closely he wouldn't have seen the way her fist clenched at her side before she whirled to face him with a saccharine smile plastered on her moist face. "Would you like some sweet tea, Sheriff?" she gritted out.

He was about to relieve her of her duty and say 'no, thank you' but his stomach had another idea. It fucking groaned.

He flushed as he faked a cough to mask the grumbling of his stomach. But the sound was loud enough to wake up the dead nearby.

The old woman smiled warmly as she touched his arm. "That settles it then. You're having dinner with us. I hope you like meatloaf."

There was another audible grumble from his middle, as though his large intestine was singing hallelujah.

His warm hostess ushered him inside the house, leaving behind Miss Frisky. He made the mistake of whisking his head in her direction. One look said it all: she wasn't thrilled.

_Boo fucking hoo._ He would have meatloaf tonight.

* * *

**A/N: I don't own Eric. **

**There'll be a couple more flashbacks before we get back to the present day Eric. If Ted Mosby could sit his children down for eight seasons to tell them how he met their mother maybe you could indulge me for a few more flashbacks? **

**Much love to amandagm who finds time to read my chapters. **

**Thank y'all! Love, love, love! **


	4. Chapter 4

_**Previously…**_

His warm hostess ushered him inside the house, leaving behind Miss Frisky. He made the mistake of whisking his head in her direction. One look said it all: _she wasn't thrilled_.

_Boo fucking hoo_. He would have meatloaf tonight.

* * *

For a minute there he had forgotten where he was, all he could see was a table filled with food. So that was what a meatloaf looked like. It had been too long, old friend.

"Sit wherever you want, dear," the old sweet, sweet lady said as she placed a pitcher of lemonade on top of a white intricate doily.

He was quick to pull up a chair for his host before he took a seat beside her in the round wooden dining table. The matriarch had given him a small towel to dry off his hair before they went to the dining area and he draped the damp cloth over the headrest of the chair beside him.

He heard heavy footsteps as Miss Frisky padded down the stairs. She had changed into a gray Bon Temps High varsity shirt and dark denim shorts. Her wet hair bundled up in a tight pony and he thought she didn't look half bad for someone who spent minimal effort to seem presentable.

Frisky went straight to the kitchen, emerging a minute later with a tray of roasted baby carrots. She placed it gently beside the mashed potatoes in the center of the table before she took her post across him.

The aging matriarch took his hand as they all said grace. Bless his Catholic mother for teaching him manners.

"If I'd known we'd be entertainin' tonight I would have prepared somethin' special."

"Special?" he asked, incredulous. "This is a feast! If my sister finds out I'm having meatloaf, she'll throw a fit."

The woman smiled at the compliment but still couldn't help and asked, "Your sister?"

"Pam." It was Frisky who answered for him. The old lady laughed, as though that explained everything.

"Oh Pamela," she hummed, shaking her head slightly. "She squeals every time I butter her toast. Even though I've told her over and over again, she's skinny enough as it is."

"She takes that as a compliment," Eric quipped as he scooped a generous dollop of the potatoes. He would have shovelled a lot more in his plate if Frisky wasn't eyeing his every move. His fork pierced through his loaf of meat like cutting through butter. One bite and he knew not even Frisky's burning glare could ruin it. "The meatloaf is simply divine, ma'am."

His host waved her hand. "Please, Sheriff. Call me Adele."

He nodded politely. "Then I insist you call me Eric."

"Eric," Adele repeated his name in her charming Southern drawl making his four-letter name sound like Eh-reek. "If you don't mind me askin' Eric, how did a young man like you become sheriff?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Normally I'd lie and say that it's my dedication and hardwork that got me into office, but you've been so nice to me so I'll go with the truth this time," he leaned to Adele conspiratorially before he whispered, "it's just plain ol' nepotism."

And while Adele chuckled at his witty response, Frisky just rolled her eyes.

"My dad's the former sheriff and none of his deputies were up to the challenge so they convinced me to run instead."

He polished off his plate in record time and decided to give it a good minute before he helped himself for his second.

"But did you always want to work in law enforcement?" Adele continued with her twenty questions while Frisky remained a quiet observer.

"It wasn't my first choice," he answered truthfully as he hefted the large plate of glistening carrots. "Although I majored in criminology, my initial plan was to practice law. I was in my third year in law school when my father kicked the bucket. I thought what better way to pay homage than to continue his work."

Adele looked wistful as she placed her hand over his arm and pinched it gently, dotingly. "I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

He beamed at her before he made another one-shoulder shrug. "Pam and I are okay. We know Dad lived a full life."

Their tender moment was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone hanging by the wall behind him.

"I'll get it," Frisky offered as she pushed her chair back and sprang to her feet, virtually leaping to tend to the caller.

Adele made a 'tsk' sound as she eyed Frisky. Two minutes and another slice of meatloaf later, Frisky came back bounding to her seat.

"That was Jase. He fixed Kit. He said it was the battery. Again. They managed to give it a kick. Hoyt will be driving Kit home," Frisky reported, positively giddy. Whatever Kit was, it wasn't a piece of junk. Not to her, at least.

Adele sighed and smiled. "Wonderful."

Eric downed his lemonade. Hunger problem solved, it was time to go to work. "Mind if I ask somethin' too, Adele?" he eased in, wiping the side of his mouth with a table napkin. "When you saw me with…"

Dammit, he had been calling her Frisky all night he had forgotten her real name. What was it? Cookie? Suri? Suzy?

"Sookie," Frisky spat between gritted teeth, saving him from utter humiliation.

"Sookie," he parroted while deliberately dodging her stabbing glare. "You seemed to be under the assumption that Sookie here had done something… unlawful."

If Frisky – er, Sookie—would be best friends with his sister, he'd like to know what kind of trouble she actually was.

Adele laughed nervously, throwing a furtive glance in Sookie's direction. "Oh that. That's nothing - only a slight misunderstanding between neighbors."

"No need to sugar-coat it for him, Gran. Sheriff Northman has no jurisdiction here," Sookie uttered nonchalantly before she popped a small chunk of carrot in her mouth and downed it with lemonade. "If you must know, two months ago I was arrested for serious physical injury."

He gaped.

"The charges were dropped the next day," Adele chimed in dismissively.

"What did you do exactly?"

Sookie shrugged. "I shot my ex."

"Sookie! You make it sound so gruesome." Adele turned to him. "She only nicked his big toe. Nothin' he couldn't live without. And that was after she found him in bed with another woman." Her fork flailed in the air as the old woman's expression shifted from defensive to indignant.

Eric could understand Adele's instinct to defend her granddaughter but he still couldn't help but be inquisitive. "You shot him because he cheated on you." He filed that information for later processing. This woman clearly had anger issues.

"Oh no." Sookie shook her head adamantly. "I didn't shoot him for that. I shot him for trespassing. He came here the next day to explain. And when I asked him to get off my porch he wouldn't budge. I had to do something."

"So you shot him in the foot?" He had never heard a more ridiculous excuse.

"He called me a prude - blaming me for his transgression. How I drove him to infidelity because I refused to be intimate with him."

Adele grunted, shaking her head, the wrinkles around her lips deepened from her scowl.

"You're a prude?" he couldn't help but blurt. That came as a shock considering how quickly she jumped him. Two heads whipped in his direction, eyebrows arched questioningly. Shit, that must not have come out right. "What a jerk!" he added quickly almost like an afterthought, hoping it would save him from Adele, at the very least.

"I was terribly disappointed in Bill. I thought he was a true gentleman. He fooled us all."

Sookie dropped her gaze to her plate, her fork fiddling with what was left of her mashed potatoes.

"At least he had the decency to drop the charges," Eric interjected to fill the awkward silence.

"He had to," Sookie grumbled. "After I threatened to expose how small his di -"

Adele cleared her throat loudly cutting her off, obviously aware where Sookie was heading.

"I mean," Sookie continued, "how small his sense of _dignity_ was."

He chuckled in response. "You blackmailed him?"

A smile toyed at her lips. "Hey, what can I say, prison changed me."

"Enough about that lowlife," Adele interrupted, rising from her chair. Sookie followed suit, gathering her plate with one hand while reaching for Adele's with the other. Eric pulled himself up, picking up his own empty china but the gracious old woman patted the back of his hand as though telling him to stop.

"No, no, no. You put that down and just sit back. No guest of mine is lifting a finger in this house," Adele chided, hauling his plate and silverware. _Ah, the ol' Southern hospitality_. "I hope you saved room for dessert though. Sookie baked up a storm earlier."

Eric exchanged glances with Sookie before the latter could make her way into the kitchen. "Actually, Adele…"

Adele didn't seem to have heard him as she swivelled to follow Sookie. For an old woman, she sure moved pretty fast, before Eric knew it she was back with a familiar looking round glass dish.

"Do you like pecan pies, Eric? I've had a slice to go with my afternoon tea and I'm telling you, my Sookie had outdone herself this time. It was probably because of all that lovin' she put in it," Adele prattled on while she carefully peeled the plastic wrapping off the top. "Oh, you should've seen her," she paused to cover her mouth to stifle a giggle, "humming and dancing all day, flour dusting her cheeks. When I asked her why she was so giddy she simply winked and said she was bakin' for her -"

"Gran!" Sookie shrieked behind them, cheeks flustered, both hands wet and sudsy.

"-future husband." Adele finished.

_Well, shut my mouth. _

Eric's lips tugged into a lopsided smirk as he watched Sookie rush toward them, her sudsy palms pressed firmly against the aged table.

"Future husband, eh?" he singsonged, his smirk breaking into a toothy grin. "Aren't you sweet?"

"Not really," she gritted out with a glare. She turned to her oblivious grandmother, who had immediately grabbed the hem of Sookie's red checked apron to wipe the soapy water off her rustic dining table. "It was a joke, Gran. Obviously, I didn't mean it." She was avoiding his eyes as her entire face blazed.

Adele let go of Sookie's apron and waved her hand casually. "Of course, dear. Because if you were serious, you wouldn't only give him a pie, you'd bring him home with you. Ain't that right, Eric?"

_Oh, shit._

* * *

**A/N: I don't own Eric.**

**Ten more days before TB comes back. I can't say I'm excited since I haven't seen our favorite Viking in any of the trailers. I only wish they do him justice. I heard he has a steamy scene with Jason. Hmm. I can't say I'm intrigued.**

**Okay, so the next one will be another flashback to give y'all a little background. Love, love, love!**

**Thank you for the support!**

**Special thanks to amandagm! Best beta!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Shoot! I haven't replied to any of your reviews, my loves. Take this chapter as an apology. **

* * *

_**Four years and six weeks earlier…**_

He banged his fist on the door. He swore he'd break it down if she kept ignoring him like this.

"Pamela!" he growled. It had been three days since his sister had locked herself in her room. Three days of listening to nothing but Taylor Swift, Adele and Alanis Morissette in a seemingly endless loop was enough to drive any man insane. This had got to stop. "Pamela!" he tried again.

He had been on DEFCON 1 since she came home drunk four nights ago, answering all his question with 'fucking Amelia'.

Oh did he mention that his sister was a lesbian? Yes, she came out of the closet a year after their father died. It seemed that she had been living a secret life for years. Eric had no problem with her choices. At least he didn't have to worry about her getting knocked up.

So back to 'fucking Amelia'… Amelia Broadway, a fairly nice broad (pun intended) from a wealthy family in New Orleans was his sister's on-and-off partner for years now. They even shared an apartment in Baton Rogue when they were both attending Louisiana State U. They were sickeningly happy. No, scratch that. They were happy and it was sickening him how they were rubbing it in his face every chance they got.

That was until four nights ago. If his skill of deduction was right, Amelia had a startling epiphany when Pam was in Portugal. It appeared she wasn't a full-fledge lesbian. The realization came when she found herself in bed with a local mechanic, Tray Dawson, wearing nothing but a smile. Amelia had managed to keep that interesting tidbit to herself until Pam who heard it from Arlene who heard it from Tara who heard it from her boyfriend…

Eric had zoned out after that. Long story short, fucking Amelia was a stupid whore and Pam hoped she rot in hell. Those were his sister's last words before she cooped herself up in her room.

He tried to be supportive. But really, what could he possibly do? He was ill-equipped for that kind of situation. For one, he had never been cheated on. What could he say? Everyone knew that 'once a girl goes North, she can only go forth.'

He even tried to bribe her with a criminally expensive bag. And when Pam didn't flinch, that was when he realized it was FUBAR (fucked up beyond all repair).

He pressed his forehead against the white wooden door, exhausted. Okay, to be completely honest, he wasn't all that concerned if his sister took a little longer to mourn over her lover. His only wish was for her to crank it down a notch. Or at least the volume of her ipod speakers. He was expecting a guest. Alright, it was a date. One that he made a couple of months back when he was in Texas for a convention. Her name was Isabel Beaumont, a forensic anthropologist for the FBI's Dallas field office. She had been very gracious to him in Texas that he promised to return the favor whenever she found herself in Shreveport. Last week, she gave him a call and he offered to make her dinner and more. How the hell would he know that Pam's lovelife would burst into flames by the time Isabel was in town?

"Please, Pam," he sighed desperately. "Open the fucking door."

He didn't hear the click of the lock and he careened forward when the door flew open.

"What?" Pam griped. He hadn't seen her in days and nothing prepared him for what he saw. Ever since his sister had hit puberty, she was all about style and perfection. Never a hair out of place; never without a hint of make-up on her face and would never be caught dead in baggy sweatpants. The girl in front of him wasn't his sister. This was a zombie formerly-known as Pam. Eyes red and swollen, lips chapped dry, hair matted to her forehead and cheeks. And worst of all, she was wearing a gray LSU hoodie with matching purple sweatpants.

"Jesus," he murmured, dumbfounded. "You look worse than I thought. When was the last time you took a bath?"

"Screw you!" she spat, pushing him out of her equally squalid room while her other hand reached for the knob.

"Sorry, sorry," he countered quickly. Antagonizing her wouldn't work; it was time for plan B: shameless grovelling. Isabel must be on her way, he had to work fast.

Then the door bell chimed.

_Fuck. She's here._

Pam took advantage of the distraction as she shoved him with all her fragile strength and slammed the door.

He took a deep breath. This could still work. As long as Pam stayed hidden he could probably wing it. He'd just tell Isabel that there would be slight change of plan and that they had to have dinner somewhere else instead.

God, he wished he had the common sense to book a reservation earlier instead of slaving away in kitchen all day, helplessly mimicking his mother's gumbo recipe. Oh, the things he'd do to get laid.

He pounded down the stairs two steps at a time. His steps halted in front of the doorway to catch his breath, smooth the front of his aqua blue v-neck and run his fingers through his hair. With another huff he pulled the door and greeted his guest.

It wasn't his date. Not even close.

"Evenin' Sheriff," said the familiar blonde at the threshold with another familiar round tray in her hand.

His shoulders drooped in disappointment. "My, my, if it isn't my future wife," he drawled dryly. "I see you brought another pie. Are you here to formally ask for my hand?"

The corner of her eyes twitched. Someone wasn't in a jolly mood. "Yeah, I'm stalking you. Gran also wants to know when you'll be back for more grilling," was her snarky comeback.

"Oh you mean that trap you so elaborately set to get me to your house?"

Her eyes turned into slits. "You know just because you have a nice ass doesn't mean you can act like one."

He smirked. So she finally admitted it, she deliberately copped a feel that night. "I knew I felt a pinch."

She opened her mouth, looking like she was about to burst out of her own skin.

"Sook?" Pam, in all her horrid form, had decided to check who their visitor was.

Sookie snapped her mouth shut and looked over his shoulder to follow the sound of his sister's voice. A small gasp sprang out of her lips as she shoved the tray at his chest before she dashed toward Pam.

Luckily he caught the pie or it would have come crashing down to the floor. "Please, come in," he drawled mockingly as he kicked the door shut.

"Goddammit! It is true!" he heard Sookie blurt as she pulled his sister into a hug. "I just found out because Tara slipped. They were keeping it from me. They knew I'd mangle Tray myself."

Pam only sobbed in her shoulder. Just looking at them was making him cringe. _Women_, he sighed.

"Ames doesn't know what she gave up for that sonofabitch. Believe me, sweetie, she'll come crawling back to you in no time."

"Fuck her," Pam nasally grumbled through a pool of snot.

"Fuck her," Sookie obediently parroted.

Eric darted a glance at his watch. Damn it, all this love-hating-grumbling was all the birth control Isabel would need.

"Uhm, excuse me ladies," he interjected, braving a step a forward. "I don't mean to sound callous and all but can you take this Amelia-bashing upstairs? I'm expecting company."

Pam's head shot up the same time Sookie's whipped in his direction as they both pinned him with an angry stare.

He would have raised his arms in surrender if he weren't cradling a tray. He could take on cold-blooded criminals, but he wasn't arrogant enough to think he stood a chance against two livid women.

Fortunately, his sister let him off but not without one last glare. She took Sookie by her elbow and tried to maneuver her toward the stairs. "Let's go to my room. He has a date," he heard his sister murmur.

Sookie threw him another look. "A date?" she snorted. "Well, I hope he remembers to deflate her when he's done."

He clenched his jaw. She had no right to mock him. They weren't even friends. "I heard that!"

"I said it out loud!" Sookie hollered back, making Pam snigger, as the two women made their way upstairs.

Yep, they were definitely not friends.

* * *

**E/S**

_**One hour later…**_

If there was any good that came out of Sookie's arrival, it was that she managed to convince Pam to turn off the music. Half an hour after Sookie turned up, Isabel came in wearing a fuckable tight skirt and red silk blouse with three of the top buttons undone.

Maybe they didn't have to go out after all.

He ushered her straight to the kitchen. The farther they were from Pam's room, the better. He popped open a bottle of red to go with the cheese platter for his guest. He moved on to heat up the pot of gumbo while waiting for the rice cooker to do its work.

"Where're you staying, Is?" he asked conversationally, easing her in. Who knew, he could still use a contingency plan should Pam belt out another rendition of 'I Will Survive'.

"I'm booked at the Clarion. My room's okay, but it ain't cozy enough for me," she hummed, leaning over the counter while stroking the length of her neck down to the dip of her cleavage. Subtlety was lost on her.

He'd be a fool not to take the hint as he replied with a smirk. "I can probably help you with that."

First things first, though. He had to get the lonely hearts' club out of the house. "Will you excuse me for a minute, I'll just check on something."

He was on his way to Pam's room when he noticed the bathroom door close to his room was ajar. _The fuck?_ Pam had a perfectly working toilet and bath in her room. What was she doing snooping in his?

He knocked twice before he barged inside. His jaw fell when he saw Sookie standing by the sink holding a box of condoms. _His_ extra large, Magnum prophylactics.

Their eyes met and he wasn't sure who was more mortified.

"We ran out of tissue. Pam said you might have a box here," she explained in her croaky voice as she hastily thrust the box of Magnum back in the drawer under the sink.

He blinked hard. He never thought she could humiliate him anymore than she already had.

"Sorry," she hushed, ducking her head as she tried to sidestep him to the exit.

"I have a box in my nightstand," he offered. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Why, oh fucking why, did he have to tell her he kept a box of tissues in his bedside table? The small smile in the corner of her lips told him she realized what it was for. Of course she would, she had a brother who probably _whipped his willy_ more often than he did. "I have nasal allergies in the morning," he tried to recover. But her grin was already from ear to ear as she nodded her head.

"Eric?" a soft melodious voice called from the hallway.

_Shit. _

He scrambled out of the bathroom, brushing past Sookie.

"Is! Do you need somethin'?" he asked, well aware of Isabel's scrutinizing eyes that were trying to gauge the person behind him.

"The rice is done," Isabel replied, her eyebrow noticeably rising at the sight of the blonde who emerged from the room he came out of. "Who is she?"

He didn't need to turn around to know who she meant but he still did it anyway just to dodge Isabel's skewering glare.

"Hi," Sookie, the insufferable, chirped as she extended her hand to Isabel. "Sookie. I'm Pam's girlfriend."

_Halleluiah!_

"Pam?" Isabel arched another brow.

"My sister," he croaked. "She's gay. They're gay for each other."

Isabel finally took Sookie's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Nice to meet you. I'm Isabel."

He could tell Sookie was forcing a smile. But he was still grateful for the effort.

"Alrighty then, I'mma leave you two alone I hear my Pam calling me. She can be a bit clingy. Have a great evenin' y'all!" She waved at them. "Oh and Isabel, you missed a couple of buttons here." She pointed at her chest.

Isabel smirked. "I know."

"Oh," was Sookie's articulate response.

* * *

**E/S**

_**Half an hour later…**_

While Eric and Isabel were having their meal, his sister walked in the dining room freshly showered, looking almost like the old Pam, sans the make-up. She politely introduced herself to Isabel, which was surprising considering how indifferent Pam was when it came to his former dates/girlfriends.

"My girl and I are goin' out for drinks in Bon Temps. I'll be stayin' with her for the night, so don't wait up," Pam explained in a clinical tone, as though reading from a script.

Eric eyed her curiously and she merely replied with an offhanded shrug before marching to out of the dining room.

"Oh and enjoy the pie. Eric baked it just for you," again in a flat, bored tone.

Eric excused himself from Isabel to run after his sister just before she could flee out of the door.

"What was that about?" Eric whisper-hissed.

"Why don't you ask her?" she nudged her chin at the yellow Honda, also known as the beloved Kit. "I'm just following orders."

He stared at the notorious Kit. From the soft gleam of the lamp post he could discern the driver was looking straight at him. Without thinking, he raised his hand and gave her a mock salute. A gesture of gratitude. She copied his move and he couldn't help but smile.

He got laid that night. Isabel was impressed by his culinary skills – especially by his knowledge in pastries. Not every guy knew how to bake a pie, she reiterated making it hard for him swallow a small piece of pecan pie.

He still took the compliment, though. _Whatever rocks your boat_, he thought, _as long as it rocks my bed_. They moved the conversation to the bedroom where talking was optional.

Funny thing was, as he lay on top of the gorgeous brunette, all he could think of was the girl in the yellow car.

* * *

**A/N: I don't own Eric.**

**I know you guys want to get back to present time Eric. Just one more flashback and I will get on with it. I will try to post the next chapter soon. Thank you for reading and taking the time to let me know what you think! Love, love, love! **

**Big hugs to my girls Amandagm (rockstar beta), MissStitcher and of course, the lovely Realjena! They are just awesome!**


	6. Chapter 6

_**Four years and one week ago…**_

He wished he could say that the moment she caught his attention was somewhat magical - birds were singing, flowers were blooming, children were giggling, that kind of stuff. Sadly, it wasn't. The music from the old jukebox was horribly out of tune, the flowers were made of cheap crepe paper and, for the love of all that was holy, if one more kid shrieked in his ear he'd throw him in juvie.

Where was he again? Oh yeah, he was in a wedding. On a Sunday - the only day of the week that he wasn't wearing his uniform. It was the wedding that had been pushed back for a couple of weeks when the groom fell victim to chicken pox.

The good news was he wasn't required to go inside the church. The bad news was he was required to show up in the reception. Church would've been better, at least he could quickly ask for penance for every nasty thought that popped in his head.

He looked around the backyard of a bar called Merlotte's, which had been decorated with bright colored garlands, mason jars with paper flowers, small clay pots showcasing a variety of bonsai cactus and, believe it or not, piñatas of all shapes and sizes. The couple was going to Mexico for their honeymoon, ergo the Mexican theme. Even the food was Tex-Mex: burritos, tacos, chilli con carne, nachos with guacamole, enchiladas. And of course, who would forget the national drink of Mexico: tequila.

His shirt was itchy. Pam, who was one of the bridesmaids, asked him to wear plaid and jeans. It'd be a casual outdoor reception, she said. Nothing fancy. As he scanned the rest of the guests, he could safely say that fancy had never been to this side of town. Men were wearing lumberjack plaids while the women were in their pastel sundresses. There was still a nip in the air, it was spring after all but all the spicy – not to mention greasy – food was making him break a little sweat.

Pam was rather pre-occupied trying to avoid Amelia - who was also one of the five bridesmaids - as she moved from one table to another, leaving Eric to fend for himself. He got to his feet, excusing himself from a sweet old lady, who never seemed to run out of things to say, and her hulk of a son, who was trying to flirt with the redhead at the next table. He went straight to the refreshment table to grab a Coke. He'd help himself with a cold beer or a shot of Cuervo but he was the designated driver. And he was a sheriff for Christ's sake, he should practice what he preached.

That was when he spotted her. She had her back to him. He almost didn't recognize her in her yellow bridesmaid dress - a one-shoulder, A-line knee-length chiffon (yes, sometimes he listened to Pam). Her long wavy blond hair cascading down her shoulders and he thought maybe she could use a jacket to cover her arms.

He moved directly behind her. Her index finger pointed at the chimichanga then moved to the fajita. _Ah, tough choice._

"The fajita is good but if you like it hot then you should go for the chimichanga with extra jalapenos," he said, making her jolt a little. He had forgotten how jumpy she was.

"Sheriff Northman," she said dryly, swivelling to face him, holding an empty plate.

"Miss Stackhouse." He nodded before he looked her up and down. She was wearing make-up, which surprised him considering how laid-back she was. It wasn't as heavy as Pam's or the other bridal entourage but it was enough to highlight her cheekbones and eyes. All in all, she wasn't hard on the eyes. "So this is what you look like in natural lighting." He stepped back to make an exaggerated gesture to check her out. "Not bad."

She scoffed. "I should really take it easy with the mojitos. For a second there I almost considered that a compliment."

He gave a small chuckle. "Don't tell me you're already hammered? It's barely noon."

"You say it like it's a bad thing." She cracked a smile. And he wondered if it was the jalapeno talking, but he swore he felt something warm in the pit of his stomach. Then just as quickly, her smile morphed into a scowl as she looked over his shoulder. "Ugh, speaking of bad things."

He turned around to follow her sight and saw a couple strutting toward them hand in hand. The man, with long, hideous sideburns, was limping toward them with a brunette in his arm who seemed to have forgotten to wear a skirt as the upper half of her dress hiked up to her thighs.

"Sookie," the man drawled in his thick Southern accent.

Sookie raised her chin to the newcomers. "Bill," she hummed. "Didn't you get the memo? You weren't supposed to bring your pet to a wedding."

_Bill? The ex? _That explained the limp.

The brunette threw her head back and laughed. The gesture was over-the-top and Eric almost cringed at the noise she just made.

"What're ya gonna do, Sookie?" the brunette challenged, leaning forward. "Are ya gonna shoot me too?"

Sookie smiled, tilting her head. "I would but I ran out of tranquilizers," she answered in a sickly sweet tone.

The brunette's eyes narrowed into slits, making her resemble a feral cat. Eric inched closer to Sookie, if the brunette decided to attack, he was ready to deflect. The urge to protect Sookie was almost instantaneous that it baffled him for a moment. He decided to cast it off as part of his training as a law enforcer. Serve and protect.

Luckily, the man with the sideburns picked that exact moment to intervene. About fucking time, in Eric's opinion. Mr. Limps-a-lot leaned in to the brunette and asked her to go back to their table and wait for him. The feisty brunette looked appalled but still grudgingly obliged.

As soon as the brunette disappeared, Limps-a-lot smoothed out his dark, greasy hair and stepped closer to Sookie. He threw Eric a glance, as though questioning his presence. Eric, who had not moved an inch since their arrival and had been blatantly watching every awkward movement, simply crossed his arms across his chest, while trying to fight off a smirk on the side of lips.

Limps-a-lot seemed put out by the gesture but refused to be deterred from his mission as he diverted his gaze back to Sookie. He cleared his throat and started with, "Sookie, I know we haven't been the best of friends lately. I'd like to amend that…"

"You're kiddin' right?" she cut him off. "You think you can just _limp_ your way here with your bimbo and expect me to just ingest whatever _lame_ excuse you have?"

Eric couldn't help but snigger at the puns. Her smart mouth was starting to grow on him.

Limps-a-lot turned sharply at Eric, lips into a taut line. When Eric still didn't budge from his post, Limps-a-lot coughed again, redirecting his attention to Sookie. "I didn't come here with Selah. She only wanted to assist me because of my ... well... injury."

"You know I can even that out for you? Drop by my house without an invitation again and I will do just that."

"Sookie, please," Limps-a-lot whined, moving two steps closer to her. "Ten minutes. That's all I'm askin'. _Alone_." He enunciated the last word with a sharp glance in Eric's direction.

Sookie laughed at that. "Oh Bill, believe me the last thing you want right now is be alone with me." She put her plate down on the buffet table and marched off.

Limps-a-lot opened his mouth and twisted his good foot as if preparing to run after her. However Eric had a quicker reflex as he moved in front of the shameless ex.

"Don't even try," Eric warned in a levelled tone.

Limps-a-lot recoiled but seemed to recover immediately as he puffed up his chest and asked, "Who the hell are you?"

Eric finally let his mouth curve into a toothy smile. "Nobody, really. Just a stranger who has a double-barrel in the trunk and is not afraid to use it if you don't stop bothering her."

Maybe it was in his tone or written all over his face. But his threat seemed hit the right spot as Limps-a-lot pursed his quivering lips and, with a girlish huff, walked away from him and back to the table where the brunette was waiting rather impatiently for him.

Satisfied, Eric spun to the buffet table and grabbed the first bottle of tequila he saw before he strode to the route she dashed off to. He didn't even pause to assess where all the protective instinct came from. He only knew he needed to find her.

* * *

**E/S**

She was in the parking lot in front of the bar, perched on the hood of her yellow, rickety car, her ivory shoes dangling in her toes as she swung her feet that couldn't quite reach the ground.

He noticed her shoulders sag when she caught sight of him approaching. His footsteps slowed as he deliberated if it was a good idea to hound her when she was clearly in a foul mood.

"Go away," she mumbled as he got near, making him second guess himself even more.

"I come bearing gifts," he countered as closed their gap, waving the bottle of tequila at her.

She eyed the liquor conscientiously, as though weighing her options. "You said _gifts_. That's only one."

"I also have a shotgun in my car."

The side of her mouth pinched. "Aren't you supposed to prevent crime, not encourage it?"

He shrugged. "I'm off the clock. Besides, you said it yourself, I have no jurisdiction here."

She took the bottle from him and scanned the label. "Couldn't you have taken an unopened bottle? There's barely enough here for the two of us."

"First of all, you're welcome," he said with a roll of his eyes. "And you can have it all; I'm driving."

She unscrewed the cap and took a swig, hissing at the taste.

"So," he started, leaning against the hood, "he's the ex."

She snorted. "Wow. Excellent work, Sheriff."

"Can you dial back the snark? I gave you booze," he snapped. Seriously, he didn't deserve to be antagonized. It wasn't like he cheated on her. "You shouldn't even be this bothered. It has been a couple of months."

She glared at him. Oops, wrong move. He might have overestimated the depth of their relationship.

"We'd been together for 14 months. That's more than a year. I'm sorry if I take a long time to be bitter. It's not like there's a switch I can flip."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm just saying he's not worth it. Obviously, he has moved on. Honestly, I can't see the allure, is it the sideburns?"

She snickered. Progress. "Y'know it's not about the cheating anymore that infuriates me," she admitted. "It's what he did to me."

_What's the fucking difference? _he almost blurted.

"Bill's my first boyfriend. Sure, I've dated other men before but never like him. He was my first kiss, the first man I brought home to Gran -"

"Well, technically," he chimed in.

"Oh, shut up," she snapped, making him smirk. "You know what I mean."

He was tempted to respond with another bon mot but the glassy sheen in her eyes stymied him.

"Bill was my first love. Gran was right, he seemed like a true gentleman, a cut above the rest. He treated me like a princess; He was kind and gentle up until I found him dick deep inside that slut," she paused to take another swig of the amber colored liquor. "I grew up thinking I'd be as lucky as my gran and my mom. Granddaddy Earl died early and Gran never looked at anyone else. He was her childhood sweetheart and she said she didn't want to mess with perfection. My parents were the same. They met in high school and fell in love. They never loved anyone else. For a long time I thought Bill was it. He was _the_ one. But he broke me. He made me question everything I believed in. Here I am in a wedding of two of my closest friends and all I can think of is how long is their marriage gonna last before one or both of them decide to stray."

Eric stared at her before he snatched the bottle from her and brought it to his lips.

"Hey!" she squealed. "I thought you're driving."

"I am," he volleyed back, handing the liquor back to her. "I just need something to help me swallow all the bullshit."

She straightened up, eyes wide obviously taking offense. "Excuse me?"

"You're not broken," he answered with unhinged rudeness. "Bent out of shape, maybe, but not broken. The only way he can do that is if you let him. And you're too damn smart to let some jackass break you."

She hopped off the hood and faced him, hands sliding to her hips. "So now you know everything about me?"

"How old are you anyway? Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?"

"I'm twenty-six," she gritted out. He was vaguely aware of her age. Pam had told him she met Sookie in her second year in Louisiana State U - Sookie was a freshman – which made her at least a year younger than his sister who just turned 27.

"Oh sorry. I guess that scowl on your face threw me off," he jested.

She smiled begrudgingly.

"Now see, you look 26 and a half."

"Will you get to your darned point?"

He stepped closer to her, pushing himself off Kit's hood. "What I'm trying to say is you're way too young to give up. To be so jaded. Sure, sideburns may be your first love, but he won't be your last. You'll have a second love, a third, hell maybe even a fourth. You'll keep trying to find _the_ one. You may fail but you'll fail better each try. In a year or two from now, you'll find him - or her – who knows Pam might sway you to swing that way. And you'll be the one wearing a white dress, throwing a cheesy wedding – I can only hope it's not Mexican themed too – and I will be there to make fun of how stupidly happy you look before I gloat and say 'I told you so.'"

Caught up in his sermon, he didn't notice their proximity until he felt her palm pressing against his chest.

"Okay," she husked, seemingly out of breath. _Is she hyperventilating?_ "I get it. I'm wrong, you're right."

"Ah, music to my ears," he quipped, bending his neck so he could look at her in the eyes. "And as your interim future husband I demand you get over that jackass. But next time you look, dig deeper. Don't fall for the Southern gentleman bullshit. Like I said, you're too smart, fiercely loyal, too darned snarky and too frickin' stubborn to be treated like a princess. You deserve more than that. You deserve to be treated as an equal. He should be able to notice your quirks and be okay with them. He should be able to make you laugh and cry for all the right reasons. Because you know you're way too hot to settle."

"You think I'm hot?" she teased, grinning from ear to ear, a blush blooming in her cheeks.

He blinked, that warm sensation in his gut returning with a vengeance, making him queasy. "Well, yeah," he croaked. His eyes darted from her eyes to her lips, for a while he seemed to be caught in a trance. And fuck if he could explain it.

Then her palm against his chest shoved him back before she clapped her other palm over her mouth. "Don't kiss me," she said in a rush of panic.

_Say what now?_

"I've had a couple of tacos earlier and I'm sure my breath reeks of onions," she explained in her muffled voice.

_Again, what? _

He blinked wildly. "What makes you think I wanna kiss you?" _What is she, a fucking telepath?_

She stepped back. "You had the look."

"I do not have the look!" he countered defiantly, pedalling a couple of steps back to support his argument.

Her laughter boomed in the air before she went back to lean against Kit, without a hint of shame in her expression from wrongfully accusing him. "Whatever you say, Sheriff."

* * *

**E/S**

**Present time…**

"Did you kiss her?" Dr. Agrippa prodded, her yellow legal pad forgotten on her lap as she leaned forward in her chair seemingly engrossed by his storytelling.

He shook his head, picked up his teacup from the coffee table and pushed himself back in his own wingback chair. He sipped and regretted it at once. Oh yeah, he hated chamomile.

"Was she right? Did you really want to?"

Hell, yes. It was a classic case of reverse psychology. The minute she said her lips were off limits, all he could think of was how soft they must be. And how lucky that fucking bottle of Cuervo was that went to first base with her when all he could do was stare.

He stole a glance at his watch. 10:39am. The sneaky psychiatrist had tricked him.

"We're out of time," he said, peeling himself off his chair and putting the cup back on the table.

"You didn't answer my question, Eric," the relentless doctor pushed, eyeing him with her perpetually scrutinizing gaze.

"Let me put it this way, doc," Eric said, pausing in front of the door, a hand on the handle, "Sookie was the best thing to ever happen to me. Unfortunately for her, I was the worst."

* * *

**A/N: I don't own Eric.**

**There will be a few more flashbacks but as promised, the next chapter will be about present time Eric. **

**Thank y'all for reading (hopefully enjoying) and taking the time to review. They make the muse less bitchy. **

**Special hollers to Amandagm, MissStitcher and RealJena – all of them combined make a helluva awesomesauce!**


	7. Chapter 7

**_Present time_**

_Shoot to wound_. That was his training. Never aim at the head, never point at the heart. _Shoot to incapacitate_.

He sniffed the air. The place reeked of gunpowder and rage. Or maybe that was just him. He had been in the Bureau, what, three years not counting those four months he trained in the Academy to get his badge. Thirty-two cases, - twenty-five solved, four shelved and three that didn't end with a fist pump and a catchphrase - and not one led him closer to _him_.

To the devil who, in one night, destroyed him and all that was good in his world.

It had been three years since the trail went cold. A small part of him was telling him the bastard had already met his maker. But a huge part – the one that refused to be cheated – was telling him the fucker was still alive, biding his time until he could strike again.

They called him the _Sanguinista_ because he exsanguinated his victims slowly by severing arteries before hanging them upside down like animals in a slaughterhouse. The Sanguinista had developed a special skill. The incisions he made were delicate, precise and sophisticated in a sadistic kind of way. A shallow slit to the jugular vein there, a couple of vertical cuts to the wrists here, never too deep, just enough for his victims to take hours - days even - to bleed out. He was a textbook sadist. He wanted his prey to wither slowly, drag out their suffering. And for the final act, after his victims had bled out, he would make crisscross slashes in their back, like an artisan's latticework. A post-mortem signature - scarring them to make sure no one forgets.

When the Sanguinista made his first kill - a prostitute in New Orleans - he was still disorganized, a little less cocky. The nervous bastard miscalculated the depth of the rudimentary gash he made in her trachea. She died almost instantaneously. But the Sanguinista was patient, far too methodical to make the same mistake. After a few more trials, he learned to master his craft. He started taking pairs. He became a better killer. _What fun_.

So far, there were eight recorded victims of the Sanguinista, from Bourbon street to Mississippi to Dallas and lastly, to Shreveport.

_Shoot to wound_. The minute he drew his gun he had to be in control. Even in the heat of the moment, he had to be smarter than the suspect. That was standard protocol.

Well, fuck protocol.

He reached inside his pocket and retrieved a small crumpled note. He kept it with him everywhere he went. A daily reminder of what he lost and hoped to find.

'_Three down, one to go,' _was scribbled on the piece of paper. It sounded so innocuous, so ignorable. Not for him, though. In five simple words, the Sanguinista had sent his message loud and clear.

Shoving the note back in his pocket, he picked up his government-issued Glock .22 and held it with both hands, his eyes fixed on his target's chest.

He hooked his finger around the trigger and squeezed, emptying his clip, all 15 rounds aimed at the heart. He was trained to apprehend but his first instinct was to kill.

His shoulder jerked when the last bullet exited his firearm. It wasn't as exhilarating as he thought it would be but at least it was something. A form of release. After the morning he had with Dr. Agrippa, he needed something to break. Badly.

Pulling off his shooting glasses, he put his pistol down and reached for the paper target that was swiftly whooshing toward him. He examined the black-and-white paper. Not even Batman could survive this kind of assault. Roman would be very disappointed if he saw this.

Then he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He looked to his side and groaned when he saw the burly man with a full beard grinning at him.

It was his partner, Alcide Herveaux.

Alcide, the six-foot-four walking advertisement for steroids who used an alarming amount of hair products to tame his unruly black hair, jabbed his thumb toward the double glass doors before walking in that direction without a word. Eric grudgingly trailed him.

"Knew I'd find you here," Alcide said, taking off his earmuffs as soon as they were outside the shooting range. Eric shoved his Glock back in the safety of the holster that was strapped to his shoulder before yanking his own earmuffs and ear plugs.

"How's your psych eval?"

Eric didn't offer a reply as he resumed examining the paper target in his hand.

Alcide glanced at the cardboard and whistled, obviously impressed with the accuracy of his shots. "That bad, huh?"

Eric raised his eyes to his colleague. "Don't take this the wrong way, Herveaux, but isn't it bad enough that we share a room every time we're out of town? Do we really have to hang out on our days off too? I'm telling you, man, people are starting to talk."

Alcide chuckled gruffly. "Let them gossip. I need a date."

Eric rolled his eyes. "Oh garsh, I'm flattered, really. But I like my dates blond and preferably with less facial hair."

Alcide shot him a look.

"C'mon, man. This is our first night off in weeks and that Rikki chick from accounting has been seriously eye-fucking me for months now. And it just so happens that she has a single friend who has a thing for the silent, brooding type."

"Aren't we too old for double dates? And haven't you heard of the adage: don't shit where you eat? Seriously, Herveaux, haven't you learned anything from Debbie?"

Debbie was the bleach blonde psycho from the cyber-crime unit. Alcide dated her for two months until she got paranoid and hacked into his email. Alcide's email was a cesspool of Viagra discounts, pornsite invites and a collection of old love letters from his string of girlfriends from Texas to Canada. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, especially when the woman had access to a million internet viruses known to man and knew how to use Adobe. The photoshopped nude pictures of Alcide sporting a tiny – almost non-existent – peen began popping in the office emails. Unfortunately for Alcide, that was just the appetizer. Debbie's piece de resistance had been stewing in the office pantry. After their nasty, albeit public, break-up, Alcide's coffee started tasting like cat's piss. While Alcide didn't mind the questionable blend of bodily fluids that probably swirled in his java, he drew the line at toenail clippings, which he found in the bottom of his cup three weeks ago. Since then, Alcide made it a point to only drink overpriced coffee from the Starbucks across the street.

"Oh right, like you're any better," Alcide grumbled with a snort. "What about Nora Gainesborough, then?"

Eric stilled. Alcide sure knew how to play dirty.

* * *

**E/S**

_**One year ago… **_

Eric tipped his nearly empty glass to his lips all the while regretting his decision to hang out in a bar. If there was anything sadder than drinking alone at home, it was drinking alone in a room full of strangers.

"I'll have what he's drinking," said the petite brunette who sidled next to him in the counter. "Make it two; he's getting another one on me." Alas, one more reason why he should've just stayed home.

He cast a sideway glance to acknowledge his unwelcome party. "Don't you have a plane to catch?"

Nora Gainesborough, the British intelligence working for the Interpol, flew in when a British diplomat and his wife were kidnapped by Albanian terrorists while visiting DC. It was Eric's first extraction mission as a federal agent. While the diplomat and his wife were successfully rescued, one of Nora's agents was caught in a shootout, dead on the spot. It was hardly considered a victory.

"Forgive me if I'm not in a hurry to bury a colleague."

He probably sensed it in her tone or perhaps it was the familiarity of her situation that made him stop and stare. "Sorry." He was genuinely contrite. He knew what it felt to have someone close to him become collateral damage. "It's not your fault. You can't save everybody."

"Is that what you tell yourself every night?"

His empathy quickly transformed into resentment as he slammed his glass back down at the old rustic bar with more force than he intended. The audible thud made her flinch but she didn't recant.

"I've read your file," she stated in a detached tone. "I know about Louisiana. How you stepped down as the sheriff to chase a ghost."

Eric felt a twist in his gut. Luckily for her, he'd had enough alcohol in his system to control his primal impulse to lash out at her.

With a roll of his head, he flashed her a rare smile. "Do you want to fuck?"

She coughed; a stiff drink down the wrong pipe. That had to hurt. His smile grew wider, feeling better already.

"What did you say?" she choked with a look that was a cross between appalled and mortified.

"Isn't that why you're here?" he asked coolly, picking up his fresh glass with two fingers of single malt, courtesy of Agent Gainesborough. "Isn't that why you chose to ditch your suit for a low neckline dress that shows off your cleavage? Isn't that why you picked this bar instead of the one in your hotel?"

She opened her mouth, seemingly contemplating how to respond. He never gave her a chance, though.

"You're here because you feel inadequate. Unlike you I don't need to read your file to know what a control freak you are. You could have sat on my left but you chose to sit on my right to make sure that when I look at you I won't be sneaking a glance at the TV. That way you can have my full attention. You kept touching your finger. I can tell by the almost invisible tan line that there used to be a ring there. An engagement ring, perhaps? Did your fiancé dump you? Or did you grow tired of having to explain why you can't tell him anything about your job? Am I getting warm?"

"Sod off."

"It's a yes then," he drawled. "I suppose you chose me because, like you said, you've read my file and you know I have commitment issues. You want the diversion without the hassle. So tell me, Agent Gainesborough, how do you like to do this? Would you like to be on top, that way you can regain a semblance of control you've lost. I'm cool with that, but I don't do post-coital cuddling. That shouldn't be a problem, though. You don't seem like the spooning type either. You don't trust anyone enough to let them watch you sleep."

"Stop profiling me like one of your psychos!" she whisper-hissed, her face so close to his he could see black smudge of make-up under her eyelids, probably from when she wept for her fallen comrade earlier. He would have felt bad for her, but every ounce of empathy he had for her dissipated when she brought up Louisiana.

His file was in black and white, nothing more. His entire life before the Bureau summed up in two pages. It didn't say how many times he had to wash his hands to scrub off the blood embedded in his nails. There was no written report on the instances he passed out drunk in a cemetery, beside a tombstone. Nothing that told of the nights he woke up screaming only to whisper apologies. Sorry because he wasn't there for them. Sorry because he wasn't clever enough to beat the Sanguinista in his own game.

He sneered at her. "Sucks doesn't it? When someone pretends to know everything about you?"

"You've made your point."

He finished his drink, fished a couple of bills from his wallet and left it on the counter. "For what it's worth, I am truly sorry for your loss." With that he rose from his bar stool and pocketed his phone.

"You're not wrong, though," she whispered, sounding defeated. "I came here for you. And I was wondering if your offer still stands."

He cursed his stupid, _stupid_ mouth. After the day he had, all he wanted to do was crash in his bed and sleep until his phone rings and another summon comes.

"I'm serious about the spooning."

She beamed. "I'll even let myself out."

* * *

**E/S**

_**Present day…**_

"I have it in good authority that a certain British liaison spent a night in your apartment," Alcide stated smugly.

"That's different," was all Eric could say.

"Right…" Alcide drawled. "And how is that different?"

"Geography. She lives in a different continent and she doesn't have direct access to my coffee."

Alcide guffawed.

"C'mon, Eric. One date. I'm buying; all you need to do is show up."

* * *

**A/N: I don't own Eric. **

**Next chapter is a mix of present time and a flashback. I know this chapter is vague, if you can humor me for a few more chapters, most of your queries will be answered. **

**Thank you for reading and taking the time to review! I appreciate the feedback! **

**Huge shout out to my gals, Amandagm, MsStitcher, Realjena and Mindy781! They are fanfic gems!**


	8. Chapter 8

_**Present time…**_

This might not be a terrible idea after all. He was planning to go on a bender this weekend anyway. Might as well do it on Alcide's tab. He was already shuffling ideas in his head on how to make serious damage on Alcide's credit card. This was a fancy restaurant after all. One of the hardest to get a reservation in all of Arlington. If he couldn't think of a good way to milk this cow, then there was something deeply wrong with him.

He came here on a mission. By the end of the night, Alcide would never ask him for a second date.

Just when he was beginning to lighten up, their respective dates arrived. He vaguely recognized Rikki from accounting - the curvy brunette with a strong set of jaw - as she sashayed toward them in her black, body-hugging dress and six-inch heels with another tall brunette.

Wait, was that Sylvie from Human Resources? The giggly – not to mention, cheeky – woman Eric painstakingly avoided when he had to make a trip to HR. Sylvie could be attractive with her long black hair and big brown eyes but he wasn't attracted to her. For starters, she was invasive and not in a cute, engaging way.

He was ready to retract his initial statement. This was definitely a terrible idea.

Alcide slid off from his bar stool and waved at the incoming brunettes.

"Hey gorgeous," he heard Alcide grumble in his throaty, goosebump-inducing voice. "Our table is ready."

Eric kept his ass planted in the stool earning him a sharp nudge at the rib from Alcide, forcing him to rise.

"Hi," Sylvie hushed meekly as they fell in step behind Alcide and Rikki on the way to their table.

He gave her small smile and a curt nod.

"This is embarrassing," Sylvie all but giggled. "I'm not actually a fan of set-ups."

He mumbled, "You don't say," without even glancing at Sylvie. If Sookie were here, she'd berate him for his crude behavior. He felt a sharp tinge in his chest. Where did that come from? He shouldn't think of what Sookie would say or do. He should never think of her at all. It was all Dr. Agrippa's fault. She unleashed the fucking Kraken.

They reached their table and he, remembering some of his manners, pulled the chair for Sylvie before taking his post beside Alcide. This was ridiculous. Adults aged thirty and above should be banned from doing double dates. This was just wrong, not to mention awkward.

The maitre 'd appeared and Alcide asked for a bottle of shiraz while Rikki and Sylvie scanned the menu.

The women ordered salads, Cobb for Sylvie with dressing on the side, while Rikki, who was feeling a bit adventurous, went for a Waldorf.

Typical.

Alcide proved that he was all man and got himself a steak - rare almost blue. He liked his meat bloody, he told Rikki with a wink. Eric almost gagged.

"And for you sir?" the maitre 'd saved him for last.

"I'll have the gourmet burger. Medium with extra onions."

He saw Sylvie and Rikki exchange a look while Alcide covered his face with the menu before leaning to him.

"You might want to change your order. I know you're a bit rusty so I'm gonna give you a tip: ditch the burger and order something you don't have to eat with your hands. And extra onions, seriously? Save that for the fifth date."

He ignored Alcide's unsolicited advice. This wasn't a date, this was a set-up. He should know he had been in one.

* * *

**E/S**

_**Four years ago…**_

Merlotte's Bar and Grill was almost packed when he came in. Dammit, he should've been there a lot early. Why did he have to bother with those push-ups and crunches? It wasn't as if his date would ask him to take his shirt off and feel his abs. He should've just taken a quick shower and left as soon as he came home from the station. Curse his damn vanity. Taking a swift scan of the local barflies, he knew, even without the help of his six-pack, he would still be most striking man to ever walk in this bar. It wasn't hubris if it was true.

A hush fell in the room as soon as he walked in. See? They were speechless in his presence.

His eyes inspected the area. The wall had wooden panels dotted with a variety of sports' memorabilia and plaques. A rustic – and by rustic, he meant old - counter near the door with at least six metal barstools for the customers. There was a wide-screen TV hanging on top of the liquor rack and a jukebox by the pool table at the opposite end. No contest, they had better watering holes in Shreveport. Nothing in this bar stood out.

Except for _her_.

She had just emerged from what he deduced was the kitchen with a tray in one hand and small white pad on the other. Her lips parted as her brows shot up to her forehead when she caught sight of him in the middle of the crowded bar. She waltzed up to the booth where a group of middle-aged men in different shades of plaids were huddled and settled the tray full of bottles of Bud Light in hand. She took her time placing each bottle in front of her customers before she made her way to him, hugging her tray against her chest like an armor.

"Sheriff," she uttered, a smile creeping from the side of her lips. "What brings you to this neck of the wood?"

He noticed a couple of barmaids – both of them he recognized from the bachelorette and wedding parties - whispering to each other behind the bar, while some of the patrons continued to gawk.

"I'm meeting someone here."

"Oh." Her face fell. Gone was the playfulness in her tone. "You mean a date."

He nodded.

She sighed before cracking the tiniest of smiles. "So it finally happened," she chirped. "You've dated every woman in Shreveport so now you're going from town to town in search for fresh meat. Should I warn our regulars to hide their daughters… and wives?"

He sniggered, brushing the tip of his nose with his finger. "I actually came here for you," he admitted. "Since our last collaboration with Isabel yielded positive results, I was wondering if maybe you could help me again."

"What? Like a wingman?"

He bobbed his head to the side. "Something like that, yes. So… will you help me?"

She scrunched her nose. "It depends."

"On what?"

"Is she at least a nine?"

He smirked. "I wouldn't go so far as a nine. Eight and a half at best." He was lying his date was an 11 on her worst day.

She breathed sharply through her nose, slightly shaking her head. "Fine. Let me show you to our best table." She spun on her heel, still carrying the tray, and led him to the booth near the pool tables. He slid inside the red cushioned couch and watched her reach for the laminated menu leaning beside the plastic bottles of ketchup and mustard.

"Is this your section?"

She smiled. "Why of course. How else can I spit in your drink?"

He laughed. "I love it when you talk dirty to me."

She replied with a chuckle. "Here's the menu. Choose wisely; the theme of the night is Grease. Go figure." She winked. "Just gimme a holler when your date gets in. I will be right there gossiping about you with my girls." She pointed at the narrow hallway beside the pool table where a bosomy brunette and a tall ginger were waving at them.

He gave them a small wave. "I think I'll have a Bud while I'm waiting. Oh, and can you please open it where I can see you."

She gave another small chuckle before sashaying to the counter. He watched her leave and it was the first time he noticed her black denim shorts. They were too damned short and her white t-shirt was too snug for her. Her uniform was showing off all the right curves and he didn't like it one bit. What kind of establishment was this? Letting the employees walk around with those clothes was like asking for trouble. He might have to have a little talk with the owner soon.

She tipped her chin to him as she held out the bottle of Bud and opened it using the church key hanging by a string under the counter. He nodded his appreciation hoping she'd stop with the theatrics and just come the fuck over.

Alas, he wasn't that lucky.

As she was circling out of the bar, a man wearing a pretentious golf light blue shirt and khaki slacks came up to her and leaned in to whisper something. He saw her cover her mouth and laugh before she tapped the side of his arm. His blood pressure spiked. Seriously? Could she be any more flirtatious? He'd like to think of it as an occupational necessity but come to think of it, she wasn't that pleasant to him. He tried to look away as the two exchanged a couple more bullshits. She giggled some more while the man ran his hand through his neatly-combed black hair.

_I fucking swear if they break into a song I'm gonna cry._

To Eric's relief there was no song-and-dance portion. Golf shirt guy went back to his stool by the bar and Eric's drink finally made it to his table. She was still wearing that stupid grin when she placed the beer in front of him.

"What's so funny?" He tried to mimic her smirk but failed spectacularly.

"Nothing. Private joke. You wouldn't get it."

_I bet I won't._

"Still no sign of Miss Bon Temps?"

"What makes you think she's from here?"

She shrugged, jutting her lower lip forward. "Just a hunch. No need to be snippy."

He wasn't snippy. Really, he wasn't.

The wind chime hanging at the door frame rang, indicating the arrival of another customer. Both of them whipped their heads to the entrance.

"Oh shit," Sookie cussed under her breath as the newcomer dashed in and made a beeline to her.

Eric took in the middle-aged woman, who - judging by her slight jaundice, the way her hands were shaking uncontrollably under the pockets of her gray dress and the sweat stain around her collar - was an alcoholic having a bad case of withdrawal.

"When?" Sookie asked the woman without preamble as soon as she reached them.

"Yesterday," the woman replied meekly. "I was at Maxine's when she and Hoyt had an argument. I went to the kitchen to fix me self a cuppa tea when I saw the red wine she was using for her beef stew. I swear I only had a sip, two big gulps at the most."

Sookie held the woman's hand, her face etched with concern. "S'okay, Jane. But that isn't why you came here, is it?"

The woman crossed her arms and rubbed her upper arms as though she was warding off a shiver. "I only want one more sip. One last glass to tide me over. I promise that will be it. One glass. Please, Sookie."

Sookie placed her hand on the woman's back and smiled. "How 'bout I fix you somethin' to eat first? Sam brought back some fresh catfish from Jackson. I'll ask Lala to deep fry it and toss in some green mango salsa just the way you do it. How 'bout that?"

"I'm not hungry!" the woman all but whined.

"But I am. I haven't had dinner yet and I'm hopin' we can have it together. And when we're done I'll walk you home and you can tell me all about the Fortenberry's fight."

Eric panicked at the thought of Sookie leaving. What about him?

"Alright," the disgruntled woman finally replied, her shoulders sagging in visible disappointment. Eric shared her sentiment as he watched Sookie usher the lady to the table farthest from the liquor bar.

"What the hell?" he couldn't help but blurt out of frustration. First the golf shirt guy, now the resident wino.

He heard someone click her tongue and realized the brunette waitress with the nice rack was standing right beside him. "I don't know why Sookie even bothers with her. Everyone here knows Jane Bodehouse is beyond help yet Sookie insists on 'saving' her." She used air quotes to stress what a ludicrous idea it was. "Hi, I'm Maudette." She beamed at him when he raised his gaze to her.

"What do you mean by 'saving'?" His curiosity was piqued.

The brunette sighed loudly before she slid in the booth across him. She leaned forward, giving him a perfect vista of the twin peaks. "Jane wasn't always like that," she started in a hushed tone. "She was a high school teacher until Katrina came and took her husband and son with her. She became a wreck. Finding answers in the bottom of a bottle. A coupla years ago she was diagnosed with cirrhosis, that's when Sook stepped in and practic'lly dragged her to rehab in Nola. I heard Sook joined AA with her to be Jane's support. When Sook came back from LSU last year, she brought Jane back to Bon Temps with her."

Eric felt like he had shrunk half his size. He didn't know what to make of that revelation. All he was certain of was that he was embarrassed. He was an ass. An insensitive ass, who had no idea he was in the presence of a compassionate woman.

Maudette was called in the kitchen and excused herself with a promise of a quick return, punctuated by a wink.

Eric didn't even notice her departure as he peeled himself off his seat and casually strolled to the table with the two blondes in the corner.

"Excuse me, ladies, I couldn't help but overhear," Eric started, taking note of Sookie's arched brow at his intrusion. "Is it true that you have fresh catfish from Jackson? It so happens that my mother makes the best Cajun catfish. Unfortunately she passed away without letting us in on her secret recipe."

"Don't you have a date, Sheriff?" Sookie sing-songed, the wariness in her tone was faint but unmistakable.

"I do. But she's not here yet. So I was wondering, if you ladies don't mind of course, if I could table with you where I could maybe tempt you Ma'am to share your recipe with me?" He curved his lips, baring his perfect set of teeth.

Jane Bodehouse blushed and looked down, wringing her shaky hands together, while Sookie kept looking at him with a guarded expression.

"Sure hon," Jane replied with a small giggle.

Sookie left the table for a minute to place another order of deep-fried fish for Eric. Fifteen minutes of random chatter later, Sookie rose again to fetch their plates.

Eric fibbed. He hated catfish. It was slimy and had a huge resemblance to a snake. Plus, it always tasted like mud to him. Even with the heavy hand on spices he could still catch that murky flavor. But he didn't complain one bit. He ate his fish with fake gusto that would have earned him at least an Emmy. Ditched the beer for Coke with lemon and the three of them gushed about the reptilian-looking fish from Mississippi.

Sookie didn't get to finish her plate before a man with wild dark blonde hair, who Eric recognized as the owner of the bar, went to their table and whisked Sookie away.

An hour went by with Sookie working the floor leaving him with Jane Bodehouse. Fear was his initial reaction. Fear for the awkwardness that he was sure would follow Sookie's departure. She was their common denominator, without her, they were nothing but strangers without anything to talk about.

Ten minutes alone with Jane proved him wrong though. Not because Sookie wasn't with them meant she couldn't be their common factor. They talked about her. How she convinced Jane to go cold turkey, ransacking her house to confiscate her stash. How diligent and patient Sookie had been with her when they were in New Orleans and her weekly visits to check on her progress. Jane also shared the plans she and Sookie made together once she received her two-year sobriety chip. They would all go to Atlanta - Jane, Sookie and her grandmother, Adele – and visit the house of Margaret Mitchell, the author of _Gone With The Wind_. Jane thought that because of her little slip last night, it would take 24 months for her to get that darned chip. However, Sookie struck another deal with her earlier that night. If Jane could stay sober for six months, they'd all take that road trip. Screw the two-year-chip.

Every now and then, Sookie would check in on them, refilling their sodas and giving them plates of onion rings, deep-fried jalapenos, French fries and almost everything she could sneak out of the kitchen.

He didn't realize it was already half past ten when Sookie took her place back in the table and asked Jane if she was ready to leave since Sam had already given her the green light to go.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Time for you to accept you've been stood up, Sheriff." Sookie smiled, it was warm this time, without a hint of condescension. Not even the acerbic grins she saved especially for him.

"Oh hell, you're probably right," he admitted with a dramatic flick of his hands. He pushed his chair and rose. "Well, I guess I better leave too." He scooped a couple of bills from his wallet and looked at Sookie with an arched brow.

"Nah. It's on the house. There's an on-going poll in the kitchen whether you've been stood up, eyeballed and dumped, or just plain catfish-ed."

"Catfish-ed?" he couldn't help but sound offended. Anything with a fishy connotation could not be good.

"I reckon it means you've been hoodwinked, dear," Jane so graciously, but still vaguely, explained.

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "So… did you win?"

She gasped and grabbed the front of her shirt. Quite exaggeratedly, if he might add. "You cut me deep, Sheriff. I'd never bet on a friend's misery."

He just shook his head while Jane Bodehouse simply chuckled as she gathered her small purse and stood up.

He cleared his throat and smoothed his hair. "Shall we go then? I'll give you both a ride for sparing me the humiliation of eating alone."

"But the night's still young. She could still show up. Did you at least call her?" Sookie asked, throwing a glance at her watch.

"Yeah. She wasn't picking up. Probably busy."

Jane led the way to the exit as Eric and Sookie fell in step behind her. They were almost at the door when the guy in the golf shirt sitting in a corner booth near the door got up as soon as he spotted Sookie.

_Oh for fuck's sake, what now, Skippy! _

"Sook!" he called out, halting Sookie's steps. "You headin' home?"

"Yeah, Babe. Sorry. But I'll still see you tomorrow. I'll text you after my lunch shift." She leaned in to him and the asshole gave her a peck on the cheek. It took everything in Eric not to groan and tell them to get a fucking room.

Luckily Jane came to the rescue and hollered from the door making Sookie rush out. It was official: _he fucking loved Jane Bodehouse_.

"Where's your cruiser, Sheriff?" Sookie inquired, scanning the car park in front of Merlotte's.

"Actually I brought that." He pointed at the red Corvette beside the brown Chevy Tahoe that had a Merlotte's logo on the side.

Sookie guffawed. "Holy batman, you brought the shag mobile!"

Eric would have laughed if it weren't for Jane who yelled, "Shotgun!"

_I fucking hate Jane Bodehouse._

* * *

**E/S**

The Bodehouse residence wasn't far from Sookie's farmhouse. With Jane as the navigator, they got to the Bodehouse's in ten minutes tops.

"Jane, do you mind if I use your bathroom?" Sookie asked, practically jumping out of her seat from the back.

"Sure, Doll, help yourself, you know where it is."

"Won't she need a key?" Eric asked as he walked beside Jane toward the porch of her two-storey house, which was smaller than the Stackhouse's.

"She has a copy." They reached the balcony and Jane pointed at the rattan chair by the window while she went to check on her potted plants.

Eric peeked through the window but couldn't see Sookie anywhere.

"She's upstairs, probably looking under the mattress and sock drawers for any of my stash. That girl is like a drug-sniffin' dog. You can't never hide nothin' from her."

"Will she find something?"

Jane, who was trimming flowers from her small garden, paused and laughed. "Why do you suppose I went to Merlotte's to get a drink? I'm banned from all the liquor stores within the five-mile radius, thanks to that girl."

Eric's brows shot up. "She can do that?"

"Oh, Eric. You might be the sheriff in your town, but here in Bon Temps, Sookie's the one with the badge. She can shoot a man's toe off and he'll be the one shunned like a pariah."

"Why? How?" he stuttered. Intrigued would be an understatement.

"Because she's Sookie. Ask anyone in this town and they'll all have a story to tell on how she helped them. It could be as trivial as looking after their cat or as life-changing as putting up a bake-off to raise funds for their ailing kid."

He was no longer intrigued but rather overwhelmed. Somehow he felt even smaller, failing to measure up to the girl who couldn't even reach his chin. He opened his mouth only to close it again, unable to form a single word.

"When are you going to tell her?" Jane asked, walking up to him.

"Huh?"

Jane's lips curled to the side. "That she was your date."

He swallowed thickly.

"Peaches, without anythin' foggin' my brain, I can be quite keen. I notice things. I made a mental note of just how many times you glanced in her direction when you thought she wasn't lookin'. And that thing with your jaw, the way your muscles leapt and tighten around your jawline every time a customer tried to flirt with her." Jane giggled. What the fuck was with these women and their eagle eyes. First, Adele, now Jane. Maybe he was slipping. "There was no woman, wasn't there?"

He was rendered speechless.

"Every time the door swung open, your eyes would find her, never at the door, never to check if that was your date."

Eric's lips formed a taut line.

"You should tell her. She'd be relieved."

"Oh, I'm not sure about that," he finally croaked, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip.

"Sure she will. Didn't you see her crossing her fingers every time a female customer gets in?"

_Wait, she was?_

"Didn't you ever wonder why she keeps swinging by our table?"

"She was checking in on you," he tried to argue. But the small smile toying in his lips must have betrayed him because Jane's knowing grin grew even wider.

"Before I became Jane the Wino I was Mrs. Bodehouse the high school teacher. I've seen boys and girls fall head over heels without realizing it. I'm not saying you're in love with her but I can tell you're well on your way. And if I'm not mistaken, she's quite taken with you too. Take it from me, I'm a pro. A piece of advice though: next time just ask her out."

Eric must be a desperate fool for taking dating advice from a stranger with a drinking problem.

"Here you go, hon." Jane gave him a freshly trimmed bouquet of magnolias. "It's not much. But no man should go on a date without flowers."

* * *

**A/N: I don't own Eric.**

**Again, a virtual high-five to my ever awesome beta, Amandagm. **

**This chapter grew so long I had to make into to two parts. It's a bit fluffy, yes, and the next one will probably be a marshmallow fest too. I guess Mindy said it best when she told me she'd relish the fluff because she knew that when we get to the angst train, it will be quite a ride. **

**Thank you for reading and for your thoughtful reviews! I appreciate all of them! Much, much love!**


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